


"When On Leave, Maybe I Know SOME Things"

by DixieDale



Category: Hogan's Heroes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 19:03:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19382869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: Just who IS Sergeant Schultz when he is not on duty?





	"When On Leave, Maybe I Know SOME Things"

Sergeant Hans Schultz had left Stalag 13, bemoaning to Hogan and the others that, while a leave was very nice, of course, it would be perhaps nicer if his wife Gretchen could be counted on to cook a decent meal, or was more fair-spoken and didn't scold so much, or looked more like Hilda or even the waitress at the Hofbrau in town. 

The guys stood there, watching him drive away, shaking their heads, wondering if Schultz knew how lucky he was, getting to see his wife and family, his home, in the first place. 

"You'd think he'd be grateful," Kinch had said, thinking there was just something wrong with that kind of a downer attitude. 

"Aint like ole Schultz is a bloomin fashion model 'imself," Newkirk had observed. Yeah, even the one Kinch privately thought of as a 'gloomy Gus' thought Schultz was being ungrateful.

"Though he does enjoy a good meal; perhaps she has improved during his absence?" LeBeau offered.

Hogan had smirked. "He said he's been saving his money for this leave, really wants to do it up right; for the right price, he can probably make do, with a meal and maybe a little something else. What do you want to bet he'll find a way to stop off somewhere along the way, find a pretty girl to take the edge off?"

A little cynical, of course, but still, most of the guys had to admit Hogan was probably right.

Hogan had wandered off to talk to Klink, and Carter was still thinking over what the guys had said.

"Ya know, I think you're all wrong," he said, firming his chin in a defiant fashion.

They'd all turned to look at the young American Sergeant, sitting there, elbows on his knees, chin resting in his palms, staring at the closed gate, as if still seeing that battered vehicle that Schultz had taken for the drive.

"And 'ow is that, Andrew?" Newkirk drawled, lighting one of his seemingly endless cigarettes. There were multiple reasons he played such a mean game of cards; keeping himself supplied with cigarettes was only one of them. Not the most important reason, of course, but still important to someone with such a long-standing addiction.

"Well, Schultz is a pretty nice guy, you know, for a German and a guard, and all. I bet he just didn't want to rub it in that he's going to be able to spend time in his own home, with his wife and his family, eat some home cooking. Well, think how much any of US would like to be able to do that! No, I think he's looking forward to all of that, a whole bunch, but just didn't want us to feel bad. About him being able to and us not, ya know?"

That got a lot of chortling and moans, along with a heartfelt, "blimey, Andrew! Next thing yer going to be drawing wings on 'is shoulders, and replacing that 'elmet of 'is with a shiny 'alo and all! Give me a bleedin break!" Newkirk suppressed the smile Andrew's naive take on things had almost caused to break out; no one but Andrew could make Newkirk smile like that, and for the silliest reasons. 

Still, it made the Englishman think, made them all think, just for a moment, before dismissing the thought as being far too deep for the aging soldier.

 

Regardless of Hogan's comments, Schultz had driven straight home, not stopping even for a beer. He was far too anxious for that. His homecoming was warm, the evening meal simple but satisfying, and his kissing his children goodnight, the ones still remaining at home, was sweeter than any apfel strudel even LeBeau could have baked. 

In a way he felt guilty about how he'd complained to the 'boys' at camp, but to tell them that his heart was brimming over at the thought of being home again, to have his Gretchen in his arms, his children where he could see their faces once more, it had seemed cruel. No, better for them to think he didn't have it so good after all.

He'd thought about that again as he sat on the worn and sagging couch, looking around as if to memorize every detail of the room. As if he hadn't done the very same thing many times before, not much having changed over the past few years. 

Blinking hard to rid his eyes of the moisture, he realized he was being spoken to. Rather loudly, in fact.

Now, his Gretchen was standing there, arms crossed under her generous breasts, demanding an answer. Well, that was nothing new; he had seen her like that hundreds of times. This time that stance, her stern voice was asking the fate of the remains of that pear tart she'd been saving for their dinner tonight. Whether it was an automatic reaction or not, his quick response of "I know nothing, I see nothing, I hear nothing; I did not even get UP this morning!" got a response just as quick from his wife of so many years. 

Gretchen gave a quick loud snort.

"You most certainly DID get 'UP' this morning, Hans Schultz. Do you think I would not remember? A full hour late with getting breakfast I was because of that! Lucky it is not a school day!" she teased him, waggling her index finger at his sheepish, now blushing face. 

"And as for the rest!!! You? You see nothing, hear and know nothing?? YOU??! Who sees every tiny detail of a toy, every spot where something does not line up precisely, every centimeter of a smile on a doll's face to know if it is exactly right? You know nothing? My Hans, who can probably recite the measurements of every doll bed and cradle we made, the answer to every riddle in the riddle books, could put together every puzzle the factory made? How can they, any of them, believe this of you, my love?"

Schultz gave an embarrassed shrug, acknowledging the truth to all that.

"I pretend, Gretchen. No, not pretend. Remember the plays we would put on for the kinder? The ones we wrote ourselves for the book of plays we published, along with all the others? I wrote the role of "big, clumsy, dumb, blind as a cave bat in sunlight, old Sergeant Schultz, here, in my mind," tapping his temple. "And I learned the part, and I PLAY the part, and I work very hard at ALWAYS playing the part. It is safer that way, especially with the boys and their monkey business. Ach, Gretchen, the boys!"

"You risk much for them, Hans, these 'boys' of yours," she reminded him as she came to sit beside him on the couch. She knew his 'boys' included men from both sides of the camp, German and Allied, and to his eyes there was no difference. They were HIS BOYS, and that was enough.

"True, but Gretchen, if you could only meet them. No, not all would I introduce to you, but some? Ach die lieber! Remember the naughty stories your Uncle Klaus used to tell, the ones your mama used to hit him on top of his head with a wooden spoon for telling? Private Brust, he and your Uncle Klaus would have many new ones to share, each outdoing the other! So many made me dream of you, my love, there was this one . . . "

And she listened and blushed and laughed, "yes, it does sound familiar and yes, I remember that time in the springhouse very well. And yes, it would be interesting to replicate that now, but we will have to find someplace much larger than the springhouse. While it has not grown smaller, neither have I, NOR have you, Hans. We would get stuck and wouldn't that be embarrassing?"

He gave her a wicked chuckle, "perhaps we shall find the right spot before I must return?"

She slapped him on his shoulder, "perhaps. Now, continue. Your 'boys'."

And so he told her. Oh, not so much, not nearly all he knew; they both knew that wasn't so smart. She would wait til after the war to hear the whole story, but for now he could give her some idea of the characters involved.

"And LeBeau! I call him the Cockroach, and I think it makes him mad, thinking I belittle him, but he would never believe I do it because he reminds me of Boopsie. And if he gets angry at 'Cockroach', how would he react if I called him 'Boopsie'? It is not his size, Gretchen, but his eyes. They are so fierce at times, and he bristles just like Boopsie used to do when he would get angry!"

Gretchen laughed, remembering the huge horned stag beetle her daughter had brought home from holiday, the one Hans had teased was not an exotic beetle but a cockroach that had been struck by magic and grown to outlandish size. As fond as her daughter had been of Boopsie, Gretchen though her husband had been almost as much so. Well, otherwise why would she have found him working at the factory, here, there and everywhere, with Boopsie riding on his shoulder, getting the benefit of a detailed explanation of the processes otherwise?? Hans must be very fond of this LeBeau to give him such a name!

"And he cooks like your Grandmother Ida, with an apfel strudle that would make the angels weep! It makes him angry, here, inside," Schultz touched his head, his heart, "when the Kommandant demands he cook for the Big Shots, but who is Klink to ask, Wolman? The man can turn a kitchen full of GOOD food into something fit only for the livestock, and since we rarely have GOOD food to start with, well, you can imagine. LeBeau? He can take the least of things and make you think you are at the finest of restaurants from the sight, the smell, and oh, the taste??! If it keeps the Big Shots off our backs, LeBeau must do the cooking."

"Langenscheidt you know of, our dreamer, our storyteller. What you did not know? He is also a lover! I would not have thought it; I have seen him miss the mark with so many over the time I have known him. He is not a handsome man, nor a rich one, and the girls he has smiled at, they see only that, not all else that he is." 

Schultz sighed, then looked up at his Gretchen, "every day it makes me thankful that you were not looking for 'handsome', for I have never been that either."

Gretchen nodded firmly, "perhaps, but handsome on the outside does not equal handsome on the inside, and of the two, I know which is more valuable. I was many things as a young girl, Hans, but never so foolish as to think otherwise on THAT subject."

Schultz beamed, "well, it seems Karl has found another who looks to the inside, not the out. I have not met her, only seen them at a distance, but there is something in the way they stand, the way their heads incline when they meet. They are being very discreet, meeting only in the forest, I think. Ah, but Gretchen, when he returns, the look in his eyes, the half-smile, it is one of peace and contentment and hope; and when he is leaving to meet her, the look is one of all quiet eagerness, sweet anticipation. I think he is very much in love, and I have every hope his love is returned."

She reached to pour him another small glass of schnapps, watching as the huge smile flickered away, a moue of discomfort following.

"Hans? What are you thinking to upset you now? I thought we were to talk of only pleasant things?" she scolded him lightly. Yes, that had been the goal, but it was wartime, and it was not unlikely for less than pleasant things to creep into their conversation.

"I was thinking of what you just said, that 'handsome on the outside does not equal handsome on the inside'." He hesitated, then shook his head firmly; now was not the time to talk of Hogan. Perhaps later, but not now.

"Ach, enough of that! I must tell you of the Englander, Newkirk! Such a one, my Gretchen! He is like an Advent calendar, to my mind. So many doors, and behind each one another surprise. Remember the one Lisle and Friederich made that year, the one where so many of the doors were too tight, and it would take so much to open them that unless you were very determined, you would probably just shrug and give up. Remember, too, all the surprises were not so pleasant? When we questioned their choices, they argued that they were simply being 'realistic', that not all doors held pretty packages? That some held mops and brooms, while others held ghosts and monsters waiting to dash out when the door was finally pried open? That is what he is like. He is a handsome man, or was, I believe, before the war. Now, he is drawn so thin, far too much for the width of his shoulders. There are scars too, not just the ones inside, but far too many on the outside, for he is a troublesome boy, too quick with his tongue, with his fists. The Big Shots don't like that, even many of the guards, though I have put a stop to much of their bullying."

Schultz took a sip of his drink, leaned back, looking at his Gretchen. "At one moment, he seems a simple man, caring only for himself, his card games, his cigarettes. Having no talent except for getting into trouble. Then, you catch a glimpse, and you know there is so much more there, hidden behind the little doors. Ho, it is so funny, sometimes, my wife! The Cockroach and the Englander, they argue and complain and annoy each other, yet, they are almost always together, and to take on one is to take on both. And Carter??! Ach, it is as if his entire purpose, or almost so, is to annoy Newkirk, to tease at him, to make him yell!"

"Hans, tell me of Carter. I do not think you have spoken of him before. Is he recently come?"

"Since my last leave, but that was many months ago, you know. Still, more than the others, yes. Our Carter!" Schultz sighed, but with a fond smile. "He is still much a boy, or so it seems, in heart if not so much in years, though he is younger than the others. Such enthusiasm, so willing to believe in goodness. He is the little brother, especially to the others of my boys. He can be so foolish, so clumsy, and yet, at times he has a wisdom that is surprising in its clarity."

"In my notebooks, at times I have drawn the figure of an Indian boy using his face, for one of our dolls when we can once again make such things. For he is, Gretchen, part Indian, like the books of Karl May and the stories of Old Shatterhand. Oh, the stories Carter can tell of their legends! But sometimes, and it puzzles me greatly, wife, I have drawn him as a young knight fighting a dragon, and even more puzzling, an avenging angel with a fiery sword. I do not know where the last two come from, but they seem as true, somehow, as the first. I do not even speak of the one where he is the prince awakening the Sleeping Beauty with a tender kiss! That I cannot see, yet, I have the drawing in my journal still the same. And that the Sleeping Beauty looks far too much like . . . And besides, with Carter? He would trip on the rug beside the couch and send the couch and the girl flying! Ach, such clumsiness! Well, it makes no sense to me, what my fingers have put down. Still, perhaps I will make those dolls, one day."

She nodded at the dream, so often recounted, so often shared. She too longed for the return of the day when they could make their toys, raise their family, when her Hans would be there with her and not only visiting on so rare occasions.

"Sergeant Kinchloe, if Carter is the little brother, then the Sergeant is the big brother. He is the calm one, usually anyway. He tries to keep them all out of trouble, tries to be the counterweight, you understand? It is not always possible, them and their monkey business, but he tries. Him also I would wish to make a figure of, perhaps even a set. The 'Schwarze Wachter' would I call it, and each would be strong and handsome, but with a different expression and carrying different weapons to aid in the fight against evil. No, now is not the time for such, I understand that, Gretchen, but someday, someday."

"But what of this Dieter Van you have spoken of, my husband? Has he told any new tales? So strange, the ones he tells," she said.

And Hans Schultz snorted, "oh, yes, and now he has told one of me! You will never believe, Gretchen, his story of me and my 'many, many kinder'! Can you imagine? Our five, yes, but according to him, they are only the beginning. According to him there are a multitude more that I am or shall be the father to!!!"

And he told her the story as Dieter Van had told it, and Gretchen looked down at her husband, his greying head in her lap, smiling and thinking of so many in their hometown, in their factory, now at the camp; ones who her Hans tried to look out for, tried to guide and protect and cherish, and just nodded in wry understanding, knowing Hans had never, himself, understood and probably never would, just how right Dieter Van had been.

"Yes, a remarkable story. This Dieter Van, quite the imagination he has!"

The afternoon passed in quiet conversation, til she looked at the clock and realized she should at least start thinking about the evening meal. The children were at their various lessons, not at school, but with the others in their town who taught a variety of useful things. It was a way to keep them busy, but she knew they would come racing in at 5 o'clock to spend time with their father.

"So, my Hans, what do you wish for supper? I will make something special, if you wish it?" She had never been a particularly fine cook, but had managed to put a good meal on the table for her family, at least when there was food to be had. Her husband certainly had never complained of her cooking.

He looked up at her and smiled a slow smile that quickly turned into a leer, and waggled his eyebrows. 

"Hey, baa-bee, maybe we don't think about supper so quick? Maybe," and he toyed with the buttons on her blouse, shifted his broad hips suggestively, "maybe we find something else to do, yes? I was thinking of this little story Brust was telling . . ."

**Author's Note:**

> The story Dieter Van told Schultz is related in 'The Storytellers of Stalag 13'.


End file.
